Dunedenith
by Enelya
Summary: A series of drabbles about the women of Arda through the ages. Now finally updated!
1. The First Age

**Dunedenith - The First Age**

**Disclaimer: **All characters belong to Tolkien.

**AN:** This is the first set in a series of drabbles about the mortal women of Middle-earth. The drabbles have been grouped by age, so these first few are about women who lived in the First Age of Middle-earth. They'll be familiar for those who have read The Silmarillion, but I hope everyone can understand them. Note: this drabbles are about people whose races become the Numenoreans and Gondorians, Arnorians, Rangers, and etc. Because of this, Rohirric women are not included, but I may do drabbles about them too one day. All feedback is appreciated. Lastly, the title is Sindarin and means 'women of the west'.

* * *

Haleth

Eight days it has been since my father and brother were killed by orcs, and seven since my mother died from a poisoned arrow-wound, although Elvish medicine might have saved her. Where were you when this began, prideful son of Fëanor? You arrived only in time to drive the dregs of the host away, and to watch us bury our dead.

And now you offer us your protection! – but I refuse, for I will not stay in this land. Whatever the danger, I will take my chances in the wilds of Beleriand – I have had my fill of Noldorin friendship.

Emeldir

Another night with no fires, another watch spent staring into the dark. Emeldir lets the night hide her fears, her doubts, her grief.

Furious, she glares at Barahir. 'Do you think me craven? I will not leave my home!'

'_Dorthonion is lost,' he says bluntly, 'but its people must go on.'_

'_Let me stay,' she begs, 'let me die beside you.'_

'_No, love. If I am to die, let it be knowing that I have guarded your path as best I could.'_

Morwen comes to take her place soon after, and she is grateful that the dark hides her face.

Morwen Eledhwen

They are a striking pair, the Lord of Dor-lómin and the Lady of Dorthonion. When seen together, they seem like contrast itself – he laughing in the sunlight, she silent in the shadows. She has been asked many times: _why are you marrying him?_ Her answers are what they expect to hear: because he is an honourable man, because the marriage will strengthen both their houses.

But she _loves_ Húrin because, like the sun, he defines her and makes her strong. And she now walks in fear because, like the sun, he will leave one day, leaving her in the dark.

Aerin

They would remember me as the weak-willed woman who stood aside when the Easterlings came. They would remember me as Brodda's puppet wife, who bore two dead children and another who did not live to see a month. They would remember me as a traitor to her people.

It is better, then, that they do not remember me. I am afraid of pain, but not death – I have not truly lived since the barbarians overran my country. The fire will purge Dor-lómin, and I will burn away to oblivion in this Easterling hall, and they will breathe freely once more.

Rían

She has not cried since her husband rode to war and never came back. Tears will not undo the past or save her country. She can see that Dor-lómin is doomed, even if Morwen, who is as stubborn as a mule and as proud as a lion, cannot. She has lost her husband to the Easterlings, and she will not let them take her child too. She is sure she carries a son, and she has left for his sake. It is better, surely, for him to be an outlaw in the wilds, rather than a slave in his homeland.

Nienor Níniel

'Why did you name me Mourning?' Nienor demands, and watches in frustration as her mother calmly continues to sew.

'You had lost a father and a brother. It seemed appropriate.'

'But I didn't _know_ them. I couldn't mourn for them. Why did you truly name me?' Nienor persists.

Morwen looks up for the first time. For a moment, there is another girl behind her daughter, her hair like sunlight, and there is an echo of laughter. The vision fades, but there is the knowledge of what _might have been_, had fate been kinder… 'I had my reasons,' she says quietly.


	2. The Second Age

**Dunedenith – The Second Age**

**AN:** I own none of the characters. Since most of the writings on the Second Age concern Numenor, I wrote drabbles about its queens and almost-queens. All feedback is appreciated.

* * *

  
Silmariën

_I should have been Queen._

It is a thought that, once created, is not easily stifled. She has a home and a family, and is not unhappy, but the thought remains – she could have ruled the land in her brother's stead. She loves Andor and its people, and she has long had a similar role in her family – the eldest child quickly learns to manage her siblings. Instead, she has a ring and a sword and wifely duties to occupy her.

She wonders later if she should be flattered that her father felt the need to bribe her into silence.

Erendis

Once upon a time, she did not fear the sea, and watched the grey waves and white foam with a child's delight.

Once upon a time, she did not hate the forests, and would walk among trees taller than ships' masts, sheltered from salt and spray.

Once upon a time, she delighted in the company of both men and women, and believed that youth would never fade.

Once upon a time, she had a daughter who loved her, and a husband who did not leave.

Once upon a time, he promised to return.

Once upon a time, she loved him.

Ancalimë

The circlet sits lightly on her brow, the sceptre firm and reassuring. She grips it tightly to hide her trembling hands, although they do not shake with fear – rather the joy of her victory. She has won it, this prize that many covet, but in reality her rule is far from its full strength, and it would not do to show weakness on her coronation day.

It is a fine day, and the sun brightens as she ascends to the throne. It is a good omen, and the crowd cheers for their queen – the brightest, whose brilliance none shall dim.

Inzilbêth

She is sure that her husband knows that she is of the Faithful. She has said nothing and done nothing while Queen to show it, and he says nothing and does nothing in return. Perhaps he sees her as a potential hostage, should they turn on him. Perhaps he waits for her to make a mistake. She simply waits.

She is good at waiting.

But she watches Inziladûn read about ships and sea battles – for she does not dare to speak his Faithful name, not in this palace full of traitors, blasphemers and spies – and yet, she dares to hope.

Míriel

What this man does to me is wrong, because I do not love him.

What this man does to me is wrong, because we are close kin.

What this man does to me is wrong, because he defies my father's last wishes.

What this man does to me is wrong, because he has usurped my throne.

What this man does to me is wrong, because he has brought evil to Númenor.

What this man does to me is wrong.

Why then, when he laughs – when he smiles at me – when we are alone together – why then, does this feel right?


	3. The Third Age

**AN:** Usual disclaimer - Tolkien owns all the characters, I just let them have a bit of time in the limelight. If you're looking for more information about these women, I suggest Appendix A and Unfinished Tales. also has detailed information on all of them.

* * *

Berúthiel

The cats? Surely no-one could actually think… really? The inhabitants of this dismal country will believe anything – a love of cats is as good as an admission of witchcraft, apparently. They are most charming animals, yes, and better company than most of the court, but they are as likely to chase their own tails than do any work, and they are impossible to control. Besides, how would one communicate with them?

And yet… every man in Gondor believes they are her spies, truly? So much the better, then. They serve admirably as distractions, while her true informants do their work.

* * *

Fíriel

'It's that damned steward, he's grown far too powerful. They wouldn't accept a half-royal cousin on the throne if not for him.'

Arvedui is ranting – again – about the line of kings. She has heard it before, and lets him rave. She remembers Eärnil – half-royal he may be, but Pelendur's puppet he is not. If he bothered to ask for her opinion, she would tell him that he is going about this the wrong way. The King of Arthedain will not rule Gondor, Isildur's heir or not – but the husband of the old king's daughter? _Then_, he might have a chance.

* * *

Morwen Steelsheen

When they announced the betrothal everyone told her that she was lucky to catch a Rohirrim prince, even one in self-imposed exile. She was a bundle of nerves on her wedding day, however, and it was not until he squeezed her trembling fingers and whispered 'be brave' that she realised that she could love him, and how fortunate she was.

Now it is time for the prince to become the king. The paper in Thengel's hand flutters like an injured bird, and she knows what to do. 'Be brave,' she whispers, and slips her hand into his, their fingers intertwining.

* * *

Gilraen

To her, time always seemed to be like a spring – long periods of quiet interrupted occasionally by momentous events squashed together. She met Arathorn when she was barely out of her teens and married him two years later, with her mother's prophecy ringing in her ears and her father's reluctant assent. Two years later, their son, and two years after that, her husband gone.

Times seems to move slower in Imladris, nothing changes: a year ago she would have called it paradise. She has a home, friends, her son – her tears wet the ground – the only thing missing is him.

* * *

Finduilas

The entire ocean stretches before her. Gulls wheel and turn on the air, foam-capped waves race up the beach and slide lazily down again. Denethor is teaching their children how to build castles from sand and driftwood, their chatter mingling with the deep roar of the sea. The wind that tangles in her hair is salty. She turns her face up to the sun, breathes in, breathes out…

She opens her eyes.

Pale sun, stark stone, a cold wind from the east. Every night she dreams of it, but there is no salt water for miles but her own tears.

* * *

Ioreth

She tries to remain optimistic, but a life spent working in the Houses has taught her to see things clearly. They have too few soldiers, the enemy is at the gates, the wounded are piling up around her – they cannot win this war. Then there is the strange sickness that lies on some of the men, who sleep and cannot be woken, their skin cold to the touch.

Hours pass, the shadows grow deeper – then there is a shift in the air, like a breeze blowing from the sea. Unbidden, an old rhyme half-remembered rises in her mind…

_Come athelas…_


End file.
